


Five thousand, two-hundred and nine feet above.

by rainydays



Series: a city and the lives within [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, DC kids in Denver, Making A Home, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 08:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydays/pseuds/rainydays
Summary: To say he's happy about the trade...would be a bit of an oversell.-Andre gets kicked out of DC, moves to Denver, and tries to get over himself. Philipp helps.
Series: a city and the lives within [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540660
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Five thousand, two-hundred and nine feet above.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read with "may the trees bend down to greet you" but absolutely does not have to be. The title refers to the elevation difference between DC and Denver, because I am a sucker for both cities.

Look, he gets it. 

It still sucks - he didn’t want to be traded, and it’s not like Colorado is on the top of his list, cup-contender-wise - but, he gets it. He’d been injured, shaky at best when he was healthy, and the cap was lower than the front office had budgeted for. 

So yeah, he gets it, when his agent calls him to tell him he’s headed to the Avs. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. That doesn’t mean he’s happy to learn his worth is estimated at two draft picks and a minor leaguer. To say he’s happy about the trade...would be a bit of an oversell. 

He stews for a few days, ignores texts from his friends, his now-ex-teammates and his _ mom_, and then gets over himself enough to post a thank you on instagram. Nothing creative - just your standard “thanks for the memories” and some “excited for a new chapter” bullshit - but he never claimed to be an amazing writer. He’s not here to be a social media strategist. He’s here to play hockey. 

_ When I get to Denver, _ he thinks, _ I’ll show them hockey. _

But only once he gets through the summer - and yeah, the bitterness.

\---

It takes him until his second trip out to Stockholm’s archipelago, along with a hot tub and two beers, for him to actually go through all his texts from players and friends that he’d ignored in the aftermath of the trade. He’s not particularly proud of that, but he also knows he’s not perfect. He’s doing better, and he’s responding now. 

He definitely isn’t proud of the fact that, in the trade, he kind of totally forgot about what was in Denver - or namely, _ who_. It’s been several minutes of responding to unread messages - just your standard _ thanks! will miss DC but excited to help Denver, I feel like I can really contribute _platitudes - when he sees Grubi’s texts and inexplicably freezes.

He takes a sip of beer. Reads the texts. Takes another sip. Reads them again.

_ I know you loved DC, but you’ll like Denver. Better beer and still fun hockey. _

_ Bring me some pop-tarts from Ted’s and I’ll show you my favorite brunch spots. _

_ Can’t wait to have you on my team again. _

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and feels his chest unknot a little. 

\---

He realizes, as he’s about to board the plane from Dulles to Denver, that he never texted Grubi back. Andre doesn’t even know if Grubi’s in town, but he swung by Ted’s Bulletin this morning for some fresh pop-tarts before his flight. His life might be a bit of a mess - _ actually, the movers packed quite nicely, so at least your stuff is organized_, he tells himself - but he’s organized enough to pick up pastries based on a text from six weeks ago. _ A text, that you never responded to, _he reminds himself. 

He curses, then texts Grubi before he can overthink it. Tries not to admit to himself that he’s actually a little nervous. Tries to tell himself that the niggling thoughts of _ you weren’t really that close _ and _ what if you’re not friends anymore _ aren’t really there in the back of his brain. 

\---

Grubi is, fortunately, in town, and gamely offers to pick him up from the airport. He’s sporting an objectively terrible neckbeard and holding a tiny sign that just says “Burky” in cursive and what Andre _ assumes _ is possibly the worst-drawn Avs logo in the history of the franchise. And on closer inspection, the cursive may actually just be atrocious handwriting. 

Andre smiles anyways, and drops his bags to hug Grubi. Screw the handshake/back-clap Grubi was going for. Andre could use the extra reassurance, and Grubi takes it in stride. 

He pulls out the box of Ted’s pop-tarts when they’re waiting at baggage claim and even though Grubi says, “You really didn’t have to, man”, he still wolves one down and finishes it with a moan. Andre’s almost concerned for the children standing next to them, honestly. Their dad glances over at Grubi, clearly perturbed, and Andre blushes.

It’s still worth it. 

\---

For all of Andre’s concerns, it’s always easy to settle into the routine of starting the hockey season. And, for all of Andre’s concerns, it’s almost too easy to settle into hanging out with Grubi - or _ Philipp_, as Grubi (_Philipp_) requests when he starts living with him. 

Because yeah, apparently that’s a thing. 

Philipp had suggested it when he picked him up from the airport. They were on the freeway from seemingly the middle of nowhere back to the city and - with a third poptart halfway to his mouth - had asked, nonchalantly, “you’re not allergic to dogs, yeah?”. 

“No?” Andre had answered, somewhat distracted by how much of the poptart his driver had just stuffed into his mouth. Watched him swallow, then take a sip of water. His adam’s apple bobbing.

“Good. Because if you want, you can crash at mine. It’s halfway between the arena and practice, and I know how much hotels suck. Leo wouldn’t mind.” 

Philipp had flashed a bright smile - as if his dog’s opinion was the selling point - and that had been that. 

\---

Well, that had not exactly been that, as he then had to call the front office - which he may or may not have been ignoring somewhat - to tell them he was in town and that he wouldn’t need housing. Or a car service from the airport. Debbie was extremely apologetic that he wasn’t “properly greeted” (even though, as he tried to explain, he was the one that didn’t send her his arrival times) and seemed somewhat flustered at the idea of him just roaming around Denver without anyone from the team until he mentioned that, “oh, no, I’m not alone - Grubi picked me up.”

Debbie immediately seemed to relax and started gushing about _ what a thoughtful young man _ Grubi was and how _ for my birthday, he brought me a magnificent bouquet of wildflowers, I don’t know how they lasted so long but they brightened up my office for weeks _ and _ you’re in great company_. 

Andre agrees mostly to get back off the phone, already smirking and turning to chirp Grubi for brown-nosing as he hangs up, but Grubi speaks first. 

“All good? I hope we didn’t throw Debbie off too much, I know it’s probably a busy time for her.”

He glances over, a little worried furrow in his brow, and he just seems so sincere - a side Andre hadn’t really seen before, off the ice - that Andre just nods, hums, and turns to watch the streets go by in silence. 

\---

A new city and an old friend don’t automatically fix things. Andre was kind of hoping they would, to be honest - blank slate, fresh start, and all that. Except…except it’s fucking _ hard, _ harder than he expected. 

He misses DC, tries not to care that his skin feels so _ dry _ all the time, tries not to resent the burgundy and blue as he pulls it over his head. 

It doesn’t affect his hockey, thankfully - he scores in the preseason just to prove himself quickly and get that pressure off his back - at least, not until a few games in, when he can’t seem to buy an onside transition to save his life. He gets his minutes slashed and the team wins anyway. Without him. Or worse, _ despite _ him. He punches the wall in the shower, tries not to curse when the dry skin on his knuckles splits on the rough grout and blood drips off his hand. 

He pulls himself together to get dressed, faking positivity as he jokes with his neighbors, but waves off their invitations to drinks. 

He throws on his shirt, catches Gabe looking at him as his head pops back through its neck. Frowning at his knuckles, mainly, and it makes Andre immediately shove his hands into his pants pockets before turning around and packing up. 

He feels a clap on his shoulder as he’s putting his suit jacket back on, doesn’t need to look to know it’s his captain. 

“It’s gonna work out,” he says simply. “Get some rest.”

Andre nods, not looking up. Drives home with Philipp, heads to bed, and stares at the ceiling for hours. 

\---

It doesn’t get much better from there. He doesn’t sleep much, and wakes up bone-tired. He slumps into the kitchen to find himself faced with a gently-smiling Philipp, who pushes over a mug of coffee and it’s suddenly too much. 

He avoids eye contact and takes a sip, grimacing when he realizes it’s far too strong for his liking. 

Philipp notices and lets out a quick laugh, low and throaty from the morning’s disuse. “Sorry. Sugar’s in the cupboard with the baking stuff, if you need some,” He points before turning back to the eggs he’s scrambling on the stove. 

And that’s how Andre ends up putting flour into his coffee. 

Practice goes just about as well. He’s _ trying _ to prove himself, he really is, but his hands just seem a second too far behind his mind, and his mind is already in enough of a fog over the whole “no sleep” and “disgusting coffee” issues. He gets more and more frustrated over the course of practice and tries not to show it, but considering he’s about ready to break his stick over his knee by the time Coach blows his whistle, he doubts it’s gone unnoticed. 

He stays on the ice and does slapshots until he thinks he can go in the locker room without glaring at everyone around him. It takes a while. 

Nearly everyone is gone by the time he comes in, but Philipp is still sitting, clearly taking his time packing up as he waits for Andre. 

It rubs him the wrong way, and suddenly he’s angry all over again. How can he be so calm? _ It’s easier, I guess_, _ when everything’s going well for you, _Andre thinks bitterly. 

—-

Philipp wants to run some errands and, since they carpooled, Andre refrains from rolling his eyes and tags along. They head to IKEA - which, admittedly, stupidly maybe, makes Andre feel a little better - and take the escalator up to the store level. Andre’s looking out the glass wall, watching cars pass along the interstate, when a golf ball hits the glass. 

“What the hell was that?” he asks Philipp. 

“What was what?” he asks, looking up from his phone and glancing around. 

Suddenly, Andre hears another one hit the glass. And another. Within ten seconds, it seems like thousands of golf balls are hitting the glass, the roof, the interstate. Cars are pulling over, and Andre’s honestly getting ready to look for cover in case the glass starts shattering. 

“That’s hail,” Philipp yells over the noise. Then he laughs lightly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Perfect timing, eh? At least we parked in the covered section.”

They get off the escalator at the store level, but rather than going in, Andre walks closer to the glass. “_This _is hail? It’s huge!”

“Yeah, weather in Colorado is a little… more extreme. All those cars on the freeway, that couldn’t stop under the underpass?” Philipp points, and sure enough, almost the entire underpass is stuffed with stopped cars; only one lane of the six is still moving, and the shoulders are packed too. “Any car not sheltered will likely have massive dents all over it for the next six months. You get used to seeing pocked cars all over Colorado. Kind of a weird time for it though… Usually you get this at the end of the season - April, May, really.” He shrugs, seemingly nonplussed, and keeps watching.

The hail seems to stop as quickly as it started, and the cars on the freeway start moving again.

“Ready to head in?” Philipp asks, already turning slowly. Andre mirrors his turn, but glances back once more before heading in. 

\---

They pick up seemingly random things. 

Philipp hems and haws between two sets of white sheets for far too long before Andre just chooses one for him; Andre grabs a toilet scrub for the guest bathroom, because hell if he’s gonna have to ask Philipp to borrow his; Philipp picks up one hundred tea candles (“Why?” “They’re only four dollars, Andre!” “But _ why_?” “Mood lighting? Just wait until daylight savings, then you’ll understand.”) and a plant that will likely die on their next major road trip and…a sugar jar. 

Philipp grins cheekily at Andre when he puts it in their bag, and Andre - despite his best efforts - feels his hackles go up again. 

He’s quieter through the rest of the store, and practically silent on the drive home. 

Philipp picks up on it, because of course he does, and when he pulls into his garage at his house, he sighs and turns to face Andre. He looks like he’s working his way to say something, but changes his mind, last second. “Can you grab one of the bags and just bring it to the kitchen, please?”

Andre nods, grabs his hockey gear and one of the two IKEA bags - the one without the plant, since he doesn’t trust himself not to swing it a little too roughly in his simmering anger. He suddenly wants to be out on the ice, picking a fight. 

He sets down the bag on the kitchen island, unpacking the candles, the sugar jar, the toilet brush. Philipp joins him, carefully unpacking the plant and watering it under the sink. He lets it drip, then puts it in the middle of the island and glances up. 

“Andre, hey, it’s gonna be alright. We know you can play better hockey, and you will. It’ll be okay, you’ve just got to get over yourself. Stop worrying.”

It’s maybe meant as a platitude, as kind words, but Andre’s not willing to deal with it right now. He may not be on the ice, but he sees his chance for a fight, to wear off this anger. It’s just - he's missed DC, and he’s trying not to be mad about the trade, but he is, and he’s annoyed he still doesn’t know how to navigate this city and he’s frustrated he has to relearn a system and he misses home and he’s not sure where that is and all he wants to do is play hockey. Good hockey. He’s bone-tired, but it’s easier to be angry sometimes, so - 

“What the fuck are you trying to say?” he bites out.

Philipp looks up, surprised at the hostility, and starts again. “You’re spending far more time trying to _ prove _you can play hockey than actually just… playing hockey. I _ know _you can play. Show the rest of them that!”

“You don’t think that’s exactly what I’m _ trying _to do?”

“I _ do, _I just…” He pauses, looks down at his hands on the counter. 

“You just _ what? _Think you know what I’m going through?”

_ “Andre, _two seasons ago I literally - ” 

“No. You weren’t in my shoes or what the fuck ever you were going to say. I got pushed out. You _ chose _this!”

"_Oh_,” Philipp breathes. His face flashes with a dozen emotions, and Andre can tell Philipp’s trying to figure out how to interpret this. He can also tell he’s made a mistake, even before Philipp’s face changes from confusion to anger. Andre almost misses his jaw twitch under the beard, but the vein growing on Philipp’s forehead is easy to spot. His knuckles go white as he curls his hands into fists, and Andre waits for the blow. “Oh,_ fuck _you. You think I _ wanted _to leave my friends? When we’d been through everything together? You think that wasn’t one of the hardest choices I’ve made? You think I _ loved _trying to leave Holtby’s shadow, just to get stuck as a second-choice all over again?” 

He takes a breath, seems to actively have to work to level his voice. Slowly unclenches his hands. “No, Andre, I didn’t choose that. But you know what?”

Philipp looks up, his eyes angry and sharp. Andre holds the contact, too ashamed to look away.

“I worked, and I worked. I got over myself and out of my own head. I pushed and I asked for help and I worked _ so fucking hard _to get my spot. So now it’s your turn. I’m trying to help, get you out of your head, get you settled, but I can’t make you want this, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you sabotage yourself.”

He pulls out his phone, starts tapping on it furiously. “Get over it. This is a sport you love, and yeah, it doesn’t always love us back. But you still get to play it. So call your mom, get therapy, drown yourself in fika, I don’t care - but get over yourself, or you’ll only bury yourself alive in your own self pity.”

Andre’s phone beeps on the granite, and he glances towards it, using it as an excuse to look away from the angry stretch of Philipp’s shoulders as he turns on his heel and stalks into his bedroom. Picking it up from the counter, it’s a text, from Philipp. A contact for a psychologist. 

He sighs, feeling like an asshole, and goes to put his phone in his back pocket when it chimes again. A yelp link of a Swedish restaurant, followed by _ I don’t have your mom’s number, sorry_. 

He’s not sure if he wants to laugh, or just feel like more of an asshole. But that probably falls under the “self-pity” category, so he sends the yelp profile on to Gabe and asks _ 6:30?_. 

\---

He knows he was in the wrong, and he knows Gabe will call him out. But he also knows he deserves it, needs the kick to get his life together. At least the harsh truth will be spoken in Swedish, he figures, a homesick way to soften the words with familiar vowels. 

\---

He’s right. Gabe hears Andre out as he vents, as he apologizes, as he promises to get better. Then, he goes into captain mode and chews him out a little, but not as harshly as Andre expected. Maybe it’s because he’s already said sorry and promised to be better. Maybe it’s because Gabe can tell he means it, or that he’s had a tough time pulling himself out of the funk he’s been in. Either way, Gabe is kind, and sticks to Swedish. 

_ Call your mother more. It helps me when I feel homesick_ Gabe says and _ Denver wants to love you, your team wants to love you_ and perhaps most importantly of all: _ you just have to let yourself feel that. _

\---

He goes straight home - Philipp’s technically, but it feels like his home too now, he realizes with a start. 

He goes straight home and closes the door softly behind him, toes off his shoes. Philipp looks up over the book he’s reading, curled up on the sofa, and tilts his head in question. “How’d it go?” he asks quietly. 

_ Your team wants to love you, _Andre thinks. 

He manages a small smile, feels it grow into something genuine for what feels like the first time since he moved here. 

“Good. It was good,” he says. “It’s gonna be good, I think.”

He watches as Philipp sits up, shuts his book and breaks into a broad grin. “That’s good. I’m really glad, bud.” 

The grin turns softer, into something more intimate.

_ You just have to let yourself feel that. _

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based on the elevation difference between DC and Denver, because I'm a sucker like that. Thanks for reading. Unbeta'd - feedback always welcome.


End file.
